


Traced in Blood

by LogosMinusPity



Series: On the Supplication of Unwilling Penitents [1]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: BDSM, F/F, Katarina is a sadist, Knifeplay, Unhealthy Relationships, and enjoys trying to make people break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:01:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogosMinusPity/pseuds/LogosMinusPity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Katarina finds herself increasingly intrigued by Riven, and as the assassin always does, she pursues her mark with a cruel vengeance.  But Riven is hardly like just anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traced in Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thegadgetfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegadgetfish/gifts), [multishep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/multishep/gifts).



> This story really goes out to both thegadgetfish and to flightshep--both of whom have requested Katarina/Riven from me.
> 
> Here are the results, I suppose. I can't say I've ever really written a pairing like them before, since this ship is so clearly fucked up (Katarina is such a sadist omg), so suffice to say this was interesting to write.
> 
> All and any comments, criticism, and general feedback is super, super appreciated folks! Thanks for reading and please enjoy!

Katarina Du Couteau prides herself on the mastery of her arts.  What she does, she learns to do damnably well, and assassination simply being in the forefront.  The habit extends to all aspects of her life.  In completing her contracts, in fighting on the Fields of Justice, even in the privacy of her own bedroom; what she wants, Katarina ensures she gets.

And if there are rumors that surround her, they serve to amuse her.

After all, it is true that she _does_ leave her marks on her playmates...sometimes with her fingers and nails...more than often with her blades.

And if her tastes are too strong for some, well, she was hardly interested in those with weaker stomachs and constitutions to begin with. 

All things said and done, considering her name, her prestige, her skill and her sheer amount of experience, it is rare for Katarina to come across things that truly peak her curiosity and attention.  Not anymore, at least not outside of the Fields.

But it seems she’s found just that again, and in a certain individual.

For all that Riven was once a Noxian comrade of hers, the woman who stalks the Institute of War is a mystery to her.  She might as well be a different person from the rising star in the military that she once was.

Others were quick to dismiss the Exile with her broken blade, calling her a shade of her former glory, and they were quick to the pay the price during the matches.

Katarina has watched her, has studied the Exile with her quiet sense of purpose and her hidden ferocity, and yet understanding still eludes her.  She does not “get” what Riven has molded herself into, but she cannot deny that it both distracts and intrigues her.  And she cannot deny that she yearns to understand, if only so that she can better learn to break her.  Killing is but one name for what people of her employ do, and Katarina understands and enjoys the finer points of pursuing and finishing a mark.

And as always, when opportunity arises, she is ever one to seize it.

So when one lazy afternoon she catches a familiar flash of white leaving the Institute, she hardly bothers to even think twice before rising to surreptitiously follow.

There is no mistaking the purposeful walk, and the hood that the shadowed figure wears up can not disguise the distinctive hair and heavily tanned skin as Riven leaves alone on the road southward.

Katarina is curious, and she decides to give in to that curiosity, for none that she has spoken to have made sense of the Exile, and she knows not when the present situation will opt to repeat itself.  For she has time and inquisitiveness aplenty at the moment, and at the very least, Katarina is nothing if not an accomplished master of stealth.

The road out is long, winding, and dusty.  The rains have not fallen in these lands in well over a moon, but the dust trail makes it that much easier to follow her target, and to keep her distance.

Where the Exile chooses to wander, Katarina is not certain, not until a building looms on the horizon.

The plume of dust stops there, and when Katarina finally reaches the building, she sees why.  It is a wayside inn, well worn and having seen better days.  Hardly the kind of place a daughter of the Du Couteau family would normally find herself.

Katarina walks into the smoky and sparsely populated common room, but a quick glance shows no sign of her mark.  So she strides up to the counter, where an overweight and heavily mustached innkeeper stands.  She watches the beads of sweat shimmer on his brow as she approaches.

There is a time for words, and a time for blades, and an assassin knows how to appreciate the subtleties between the two.  A piece of shining silver coin flicks between her fingers and lands unerringly on the counter.

“Which room?” she asks, drawing the words out pleasantly, already looking down the long hallway past the common room.  She doesn’t need to specify, and the innkeeper, dim though he looks, is smart enough not to ask questions.

He points down the hall with one quivering fingers, eyes wide, and he stutters over his words. “Fifth d-door, on the right.”

Before he even finishes, she is moving, counting the doors as she passes them, until she reaches number five.

There is no pause, mental or physical, when she grabs the handle and opens the still unlocked door.

Her target, however, spares no room for pausing either, and appears entirely too unimpressed by Katarina’s unheralded entrance.

Riven is sitting on her creaky excuse for a cot, the shattered remnant of her Noxian rune blade resting easily on her lap.  She moves it now, from her lap onto the bed, a fluid motion that belies the tremendous strength needed to heft the sword with but one hand.

Her autumnal eyes remain on her guest the entire time, though, and she does not bother for diplomacy.

“What do you want, assassin?”

Katarina smirks, draws a slow finger across her cheek in mock consternation as the door closes behind her. “My, I did not realize we were on such formal terms, Riven, O Wandering Exile of Noxus.”

The Exile’s dark lips flatten and twist at mockery, but her eyes remain as cooly untouched and dispassionate as ever.  Katarina is asked again:

“What do you want, then?  We are not at the Institute.  Why have you been following me?”

“You intrigue me,” she admits at last, and it is the truth.  She lets her gaze wander across Riven, starting from the crown of her head and working downward.  Her hood is down, pooled about her neck, revealing the strikingly pale hair and bloodied eyes that make the Exile so easy to recognize.  With her armor already removed, Katarina can more easily follow the oft hidden contours of muscle, of shining white scars across dark skin, of surprisingly considerable cleavage and equally considerable curves.

Only when she reaches the tips of Riven’s booted feet does she bring her attention back up to the face of the woman in front of her.  And she finds herself slightly disappointed to see not even the faintest touch of rouge beneath the sculpted cheekbones.

“I am not one of your playthings, and I have no desire to be.” Riven’s voice is so, so very cold, and only a fool would be unable to hear the warning threat behind it.

Katarina is no fool, but she is hardly one to turn back.

The woman before her is an enigma, a fighter, an opponent, a challenge...and Katarina so wants Riven to engage her back, more than what she cares to admit to even herself.

“Hardly suggesting you were,” reassures Katarina blandly, fingering the pommel of one knife. “I would think that the famed and shattered Exile is quite in a class of her own, wouldn’t you agree?  But you do so intrigue me, Riven.  I _do_ remember the promising young captain and her black and green rune blade from the Ionian Campaign you know.”

“And what would you know of her?”

“More than what you would think,” smirks Katarina.  She begins to slowly close the distance between them, speaking all the while, studying for any openings in Riven’s face. “I remember a warrior, strong and fearless beyond all measure.  I remember how, despite her youth, she was so gifted, such a pinnacle of Noxian values, that the generals gifted her rune blade, too massive for many to even lift, let alone wield.  And I remember how she cut into our enemies like a scythe against the wheat.”

 _There_.  There is some semblance of response.  A nameless emotion flits across the tanned face, almost too quick to be perceived.  Katarina continues.

“Perhaps the brutality of battle, the ruthlessness of the war machine that is Noxus, overwhelmed her.  But she broke.  And now she’s only a pale shadow of what she should have been, an imitation of true Noxian strength and power.”

Riven’s eyes flash now, angry and defensive, and Katarina feels the shiver of a thrill tingle along her spine.

“Mass slaughter of Ionians and Noxians alike using Zaun chemical weapons is _not_ the Noxus we are supposed to be!  That is not Noxus!”

A silken and cruel laugh escapes Katarina; she cannot help herself. “And you...you of all people claim to know Noxus?  You presume to know what Noxus is better than Noxus itself?”

She is nearly on top of Riven now, hovering over her.  She can feel the strain in the woman below her, emotional conflict exuded in tensed muscles and dilated pupils, and she relishes in it, and in what she does and says next.

With one hand she reaches out, trails a finger with surprising gentleness across the curve of the Exile’s soft face.  Then she speaks. “Maybe that is the case.  Or maybe it was always Noxus that was true to its nature, and it was only ever you who was blind to what our greater state is.  Perhaps what you pursue is merely your own ideal and yours alone, and that is why you have no place anymore, not in Noxus, nor anywhere in Runeterra.

She withdraws her hand, watching with a welling and familiar sense of pleasure as Riven’s eyes widen, as if physically hit.  She has struck a chord within the woman, something precious and fragile and carefully guarded, but still Katarina has reached around her defenses and cracked it, and _that_ pleases her beyond all measure. 

Katarina is already opening her mouth—eager to drive the barb even deeper, to twist it even further and to see what havoc she can sow—and then Riven is moving.

She’s fast, too fast for even the assassin, and that is saying quite a lot.

The knife is only half out of Katarina’s sheath before the Exile is up and on her, one bronze hand pinching around her wrist nearly hard enough to grind bones.

Katarina could grab another blade, could fight back, but she freezes.  She finds herself staring up into Riven’s eyes.  They are separated by a mere foot, both are equally still, and Katarina finds her blood beginning to pulse beneath the unforgiving grip of Riven’s hand, suddenly expecting, almost hoping for the next move.

She is not disappointed.

Without even blinking, Riven guides Katarina’s entrapped hand, fully pulling the weapon free.  The Exile’s other free hand comes up, wrapping about the twinkling edges of the blade.  Her red eyes are no longer cold; they are hot as boiling blood, and filled with sick, consuming wrath for all that her voice comes out barely above a whisper. 

“You like using your knives...don’t you?”

Riven squeezes slowly against the knife then, and blood wells up swiftly, for Katarina keeps her blades razor sharp.

The action, so deliberate from a seasoned warrior as the Exile, impresses her.  And it excites her.  Terribly so.

Sudden heat electrifies her, settles distinctly between her legs as her breathing starts to come faster.

Then Riven moves again.

Katarina is pushed around and into a wall front first, one foreign hand pressing hard between her shoulder blades, and and the other twisting one of her arms back so tightly that she has to arch her back to keep from crying out at the flaring pain in her shoulder.  Yet she does nothing, panting...and waiting for what will come next.

And she doesn’t have to wait long.

“This is what you wanted from me, isn’t it?”

Riven’s voice is hot and dark and oh-so-very _angry_.  And it makes her shiver deliciously all over, because the Exile’s touch is as equally brutal as her voice.

One scarred hand reaches around to her front, pulls down at the skimpy excuse for a corset- shirt, twists one exposed nipple between warm and bloodied fingers.

The motion is hard and painful, and it shoots through Katarina like a bolt.  She’s never been one for being on the receiving end of such torments, but even so the pain becomes pleasure, and she feels her knees quake and try to give out beneath her.

“ _Isn’t it, Katarina?_ ”

The other hand tears at her buckles, slides under leather and easily reaches between her thighs without any pretenses.  Yet Katarina doesn’t even need them, because she can feel how wet and ready and eager she is before even the first touch against her.

She jerks at the initial harsh scrape of fingers and her pelvis grinds into the wall. 

But they are without any pretenses, and Riven’s hand keeps moving, effortlessly parting her with the sharp thrust of fingers.

Despite her desire to remain silent, a sound leaves her then, high pitched and breathy, pleading without even forming true words, and that only seems to fuel the anger of the hands that play with her.

“This is what you wanted from me,” Riven snarls with each push of her fingers. “What you needed from me.”

The last word is then punctuated by her biting down on the thick muscle between Katarina’s neck and shoulder.

The teeth dig in hard enough to break skin, and Katarina hears herself moan helplessly in response.  She never, _never_ , allows her playmates to leave marks on _her_ , but she perversely finds herself longing for every last bruise and imprint that she already knows will be left behind.

All of the Exile’s movements are crude artistry, bordering on painful, and Katarina gives into all of it.  She desperately tries to move her hips in time, but she’s pressed too tightly to the wall and to Riven alike, and there’s not enough room for her.  So instead she is left to the mercy of the Riven’s fingers—which is just, she realizes, what the other woman intended.

She’s begging, she suddenly realizes.  How long she has been speaking for, she doesn’t know, but the words come out in a breathy and shaking stream; she’s pleading, shamelessly, for both mercy and for more, for every torment that Riven will offer, willing to do anything back.  And even realizing it, she feels no desire to stop; because she _does_ want every last thing that she says, and she wants to see just how far the former champion of Noxus will go at her goading.

The motions become even rougher, the fingers and hands, the mouth and teeth become even harsher and more pitiless on Katarina’s skin.

And then she’s coming—hard and fast, just like how she’s been taken—rucking down into the hand between her legs no different than any barmaid whore bought for a cheap and drunken goldpiece.

She staggers against the wall, and it takes all her pride to keep from stumbling when the press a strong body behind her coldly withdraws, leaving her only with the wall and her shaking legs to support herself.

It’s only after her breath begins to slow and her muscles regain some feeling of strength that she is able to straighten and turn around.

Riven has already wiped her hands off, busied herself back on her cot.  Her hood is back up and her face unknown again.

Katarina looks down at herself.  She is a picture of total disarray, her belt undone and her breasts exposed, and a swathe of now drying blood finger-painted across her stomach and chest.

She begins to slowly compose herself, shrugging back into her tight-fitting leathers.  Half of her is glad that her clothes are in one piece to walk out in; the other half wishes thickly that the Exile had torn them right apart.

She takes her time, saunters across the old and crappy room toward the door, and she can feel an amber gaze burning on her skin the entire way.

It’s only when she allows herself to tally, hand playing with the door handle, that there is finally a response: the jerking movement of a hand gripping on a broken blade’s hilt with white knuckles.

“Get _out_!” yells Riven, and her voice is filled now only with anger and the threat of true and unrestrained bodily harm.

Normally Katarina would laugh at such a demand—she is the assassin of Noxus, and she does as she pleases.  But she accedes, and closes the door behind her as she walks down the hallway and out of the dusty wayside inn. 

And she smiles the whole of the way, for as she walks down the road, one hand caressing a dagger, she knows a pair of eyes are staring her down from a certain guest’s windowed room.

She has never miscalculated on a mark before.

Perhaps next time—for even if the Exile refuses to acknowledge it, there _will_ be a next time—Katarina will get to return the favors.

   

 


End file.
